Envy
by demetrifever123
Summary: They share nothing with each other - not their styles, their home lives, their heritages. They're complete polar opposites, but for some reason they're pulled together. They need each other, and just when they start to realize that, everything is working to drive them apart. One secret can change everything. Paul/Marko, slash. AU
1. Chapter One

**Hey, this is slash. Keep reading. **

**Just kidding. Sort of. **

**This IS slash, and it's completely AU. To clear up something before I really get into this story - there is going to be mention of Chris and Shane. You know, the guys from one of the sequel Lost Boys movies. Can't really remember which one. The Thirst, I think. Anyways, yes, it's the same guys, technically, but I have never seen that movie and they're probably not going to be anything like the original characters. Just saying, in case someone here *has* seen that movie and gets irritated by the very off characterization. :P Like, I said...this is VERY AU. ^.^ **

**Some quick warnings, here. This is set in the '80s, and it's not going to be a light story. That means drugs, alcohol, pimpage, violence, some naughty references people might not like, some lemons and limes spread throughout, homophobia, religious and racial hate, and (possibly) some abuse thrown into there (mixes in with the pimpage). And, between all of that, angst and fluff. Yeah, this one's pretty loaded. XD Basically, it's rated M for a reason. **

**If you're still here, I want you to have a free hug. *hugs* **

**I'll talk more later. For now, just read. ;) **

* * *

"'I think of all the education that I've missed. But then my homework was never quite like this!'"

"That _better _not be the reason you're still in school!"

Paul threw a wink to his right, taking his eyes off the road for several whole seconds as he spoke to the woman next to him. "You know I can't help myself around those hot teachers. They're just so_ bad_." He smiled widely and she returned it with just as much zeal. They both knew how unattractive, unpleasant and _Catholic _his last teachers were. If he so much as looked at a teacher's behind when they turned to walk away, he would have gotten a ruler shoved up his.

She held her smile without effort and ran her fingers through her dark hair, looking on at the road ahead of them. Paul finally returned his gaze back to the empty, _long _stretch of concrete. The radio had been one of the only things keeping the mostly-quiet car ride bearable, and that had gone out of range after a while of driving. Paul had taken it upon himself to start singing songs from heart, and his passenger joined in most of the time. It was pleasant – carefree, even if it was a little forced.

The last time they had passed another car had been miles ago—and the last sign they saw was hours before then. "Gas station – 200 miles," it had read. Paul had thought it was a joke; surely there wouldn't be that much of a gap between gas stations in a location like this. They were literally in the middle of nowhere. If they broke down on the side of the road, it would most likely take days before they could reach any help. A worrisome thought to most, but Paul was pretty confident in their car's mechanical status. New, it definitely was not—but mechanically working? Sure. He could count on it to get them to their destination safely.

The next sign they passed was large, entirely wood and run-down, and told them they had crossed over the New Mexico border and were now on Texan terrain. And just up ahead, as the second last sign had promised, was a little gas station. Tumbleweeds were collecting in the lot and it hosted only one car. Paul had to second-guess if the place was even open anymore; it looked like it had been closed for years.

They pulled up along a pump and Paul cut the engine. Used to the nice wind from his rolled-down window, the hot and dry air was a shock. Even in his wife-beater and frayed shorts, he was starting to sweat already.

As he loaded up on gas, his passenger eventually opened her door and climbed out. She walked around to his side and leaned on the car. She was dressed much like he was—sneakers, ripped shorts, and a tank top. Except her shirt was considerably more revealing. Paul didn't mind it; he was used to her "flaunting her assets," you could say. She did it because it was more comfortable to her, and this heat was ungodly. Besides, there wasn't anyone around to stare at her. And there was a _lot _to stare at, as long as her legs were.

She fished some money out of her pocket when the tank was full and they headed inside the gas station together. A little Hispanic lady was behind the counter, sitting on a stool. She said nothing as they roamed up and down the aisles, looking for snacks. That had to suck, in a way—working all the way out here. Paul figured there had to be a small town nearby, because he couldn't imagine driving so far just to work at a gas station. You would have to be pretty desperate. Then again, you would have to be desperate to drive all the way from California to Texas just to have a stable living environment and consistent paycheck. And that was exactly what they were looking for, coming out here.

"Hey, look." Paul pointed to some magazines that were all printed in Spanish and had tanned hunks on the front. "Foreign candy for the road." His passenger snickered and he grinned.

"I should probably give that a try. White guys aren't working for me."

"You should've hooked up with a black guy," Paul told her. "Then I'd have a badass fro."

She rolled her eyes. He did have some of the straightest hair she'd ever seen. "Keep using that gel, hon."

By the time they were back on the road, they had a full tank, a bag of chips, a six-pack of beer, and half-empty pockets. The sun was still high in the sky, and it was still hot enough to fry an animal if it was stupid enough to leave the shade.

"It's not hot like this _all _the time, is it?"

"We're in the middle of the _desert, _Paul."

"Nu-uh. Deserts don't have mountains, Mary."

"Don't call me that," she chastised, but her small smile squashed any authority in her voice. Paul let slip his own smile in return.

"Sorry." It was tricky to not call her by her name a lot of the time. For him, at least. Most people didn't have any problem just saying "mom," but it felt weird for him. She didn't exactly feel like his mom a lot of the time. Maybe it was her age, or maybe it was because she was so easy-going. Either way, he had to work on it; whenever he would call her Mary, people would start to assume she's his older sister, despite the fact they look almost nothing alike (besides their heights, of course). While it was flattering for her, there were also people in the past who had thought they were a couple, and _that _had been awkward.

"Can I have a drink, _Mom_?" She smirked around her mouthful of beer and shoved a thin-necked bottle his way. He downed it within five minutes and they threw their empty bottles out the windows as they finished, laughing whenever they managed to hit cactuses that were close to the shoulder of the road.

Mary propped her feet up and Paul leaned back in his seat, one arm resting on the top of the steering wheel and the other laid across the window frame. The rest of the ride was fairly peaceful; they never had to stop, and they rarely passed other cars. It was just one long, straight stretch. When they actually started reaching civilization, the color was draining from the sky and Paul's eyes were tired. He had to sit up and stretch in his seat to wake himself up from his autopilot trance.

Mayhill was about an hour west of San Antonio—caught in the middle of the desert and intense forestry. If Paul had to describe the scenery on the ground, it was simple: a slightly grassy desert, or dry grassland, if you will. That was it. It was getting dark so there wasn't much to see (not that it was a gold mine for the eyes in the afternoon). The city started off gradually; just some houses and farms at first, and then what seemed like a little town. And then, in the distance, Paul could see the city. The tall buildings were a big giveaway. Mayhill, in its entirety (quite a large area), housed about half a million people. That's what the little green sign had said, at least. Paul was from an even larger city, and judging by the number of skyscrapers, that estimate seemed about right. Well, if you could judge a city by its tallest buildings. Did that work?

"Santa Rosa Street," Mary read from the directions she pulled out of the glove department. "It's on your left. Somewhere up ahead." Their turn came up quickly; apparently their street wasn't quite in the heart of the city. Bummer.

It didn't take Paul long to figure out that this neighborhood was…well, poor. That was good; he would have something in common with his neighbors. There was no use in covering up its state. To be blunt, it was a ghetto, complete with graffiti, run-down streets with faded yellow lines, collapsing porches, overgrown weeds on the sidewalk, concrete barriers, chain-link fences, and stripped cars. There were a dozen or so tall buildings—the apartments—that fared no better than the houses. One of those buildings was their destination.

It took Paul several minutes to find a (safe) place to park; he found some designated parking spaces a block down from their apartment building. As he looked around, he saw very few cars—not a very good sign. He was going to have to trust that the lack of keys in the ignition and items on the seats were enough to keep people away.

They only had two boxes for their possessions—everything they owned. Paul made sure the windows were rolled up and the doors were locked, and then they headed for their building.

It was Paul's uncle that had brought them to this place in particular; they were going to be sharing an apartment unit with him. He had never been here before; his uncle had always come to visit them in California when they saw each other. This was going to be a very different exchange.

After ascending several narrow stairwells, they were standing outside of a room that was missing its middle digit on the door. Without the second letter, it read 69. Paul snickered.

Mary set down her box and knocked on the door. After several long moments of nothing, she knocked again. There was a loud bang as something knocked over on the other side of the door, and then they could hear a body thump against the door when the apartment's occupant checked the peep hole. A chain slid back, the doorknob unlocked, the worn door swung open, and there stood Paul's uncle, in his unkempt glory.

"Tommy!" Mary beamed, and pulled him in for a warm hug.

Tommy was a large but built fella who stood over a whole head shorter than Paul and a few inches below Mary. Middle-aged, graying and brown-eyed like his sister, he had a messy composure; stained plaid shirt from all of his mechanical work, old jeans, and a wiry beard that rested against his chest. It had definitely grown since the last time Paul had seen him. Otherwise, he remained the same.

"C'mon." He waved them in briskly. Mary scooped up her box and Paul let her enter the apartment first. He took one last quick look at the number of doors that were on the floor, just for future reference: only one other door.

Tommy swiftly shut the door behind Paul and locked it in several places. "I thought you were somebody else," he said, his adopted accent peeking through. Tommy was significantly older than Mary and had been living in Texas since before Paul was born; this state was more of a home to him than California ever was, and his slight twang reflected that.

"Expecting other company?" Mary teased, setting her box down again next to the dirty, pea green couch that was as old as Tommy.

"No," he shot back. "Jus' you."

"Geesh. Calm down, little big bro." Tommy, who was a good three inches or so below Mary's five-ten (yikes, right?), took offense to that, as usual. But all he did was grumble something incoherent and turn towards Paul to take his nephew in.

Paul had been looking around the combined living room and kitchen area, hardly paying attention to the other two in the room.

He snapped to attention when his uncle exclaimed, "Jesus Christ!"

"What?" he asked dumbly.

"You're _huge_! You could have given your grandfather a run for his money back in the day. What are you, six-somethin'?"

"Uh…" His mind was still foggy from the long drive; he had to think about it for a moment. "I dunno."

"Well, you gotta be somewhere around there." Tommy gave Paul a playful but rough smack in the arm. Paul tried to think of how many years it had been since he had last seen his uncle. It wasn't like he had grown a lot in the last year; he had always been pretty freaking tall. He remembered measuring in at six feet his freshman year of high school. But this was his family, after all; they weren't known for paying attention. It wouldn't surprise him if his uncle started asking when he became a blond. "You got a girlfriend back in California?"

"No, no girlfriend," he replied nonchalantly.

"Aw, man – you're gonna get loads of pussy here, I'm telling you."

"Tommy!" Mary gasped with faux disbelief.

Tommy chuckled to himself and slapped Paul on the chest. "Beer in the fridge." You could count on one hand the number of strides it took Mary's long legs to carry her to the fridge for that beer. It took Paul twice as long; his mother settled with tossing him a bottle from across the room. He took a seat at the bar that connected the living room to the small kitchen. Fatigue was settling in; he was struggling to stay awake and aware. He wasn't even aware that he wasn't really drinking the beer – only holding it between his hands.

"Not much of a beer-drinker, I take it?"

"He's _tired_, Tommy, can't you see?" She rolled her eyes. "Boys are so thick."

"Then he needs to drink some of that. He'll be wide awake in no time."

"Since when does booze have caffeine in it?"

"Since some asshole down the street decided to start selling it with the insides of wake-up pills or somethin' like that. Damn genius, he is. You won't be gettin' sleep for a week afterwards, but the beauty is you don't need it! Fancy that, sis – a pick-me-up beer."

"Huh." She examined her beer through the slim neck, as if she would be able to spot the drug inside.

"Go on, kid. Try some."

Paul looked down at the cold beverage. He glanced at his mom, who paid no attention to him; she just drank her beer while studying the surface of the counter. Tommy was watching him; he didn't even have to look to know that.

Well, what the hell. A beer was a beer, tampered or not, right?

He grimaced at his first taste, and shivered on his second. There was definitely more than just a little bit of pill juice in there; the smell and taste of it was completely different – cringe-worthy. Nasty, even. But he finished the whole thing, nonetheless. Paul wasn't one to waste.

It took several hours for most of the effects of his drink to wear off. The pills were probably expired, unless they didn't last very long because the beer countered it. Oh well. Science. He had no clue. It didn't matter though, because the pills did wear off, and he crashed hard on the floor mattress in the second bedroom with an empty bottle clutched in his left hand and a shoe in the other.

When he woke up in the early hours of the morning, he was extremely groggy, only wearing one shoe, and had a dull headache. It was stuffy as hell in the bedroom, since it only had one old window that barely opened. Paul noticed that Mary wasn't lying in the twin mattress on the opposite wall, and the door was cracked open. Quiet voices drifted through the opening.

Paul trudged his way to the kitchen, bumping into walls and redirecting his direction of travel a few times when he realized he was going somewhere else. It was a simple layout, Tommy's apartment, but being in a place that wasn't home yet and having a cloudy mind made things disorienting.

"…before someone steals it."

"I know!" hissed a feminine voice. "Can't I just hang onto it for a little longer?"

Their conversation stopped when Paul entered their vicinity. They had been talking very quietly – whether it was out of courtesy to Paul sleeping or to keep him from hearing a private conversation, he didn't know, and he didn't ask. When Mary realized he was there, she smiled brightly at him and turned around in her chair. "Morning, sweetie." She patted his arm as he walked by and he returned her smile.

"Hey, Mom."

Paul opened up the fridge, hoping to find something in it, but all it held was beer, fast food hamburgers, beer, a Coca Cola, and more beer. Well, that was a disappointing find. "Got anything for headaches?" he asked his uncle, rubbing his forehead and eyes.

"Nope. Sorry," Tommy replied shortly.

The next half-hour dragged by, accompanied by lots of silence as they all sat and slowly woke up further. When the clock read seven, Mary blurted, "Are you sure you want to go to school? I can pull you out; you're old enough."

Paul laughed, "What am I gonna do all day long if I drop out?"

"Work," Tommy mumbled to himself.

"I'm just making sure." Mary looked down at her half-empty beer. Her dark hair fell forward and hid part of her face.

Paul's smile faltered. His mother had been asking him if he wanted to drop out since he started high school. She never finished school, and she didn't really see a point in him completing it. After all, what good was a high school diploma? But Paul insisted on finishing. He had been going through schooling since he was just a little shit. One more year was nothing to him. Might as well wrap it up. Plus, he had always hoped he would be able to make better money with some education. You know, support his mom and everything.

"Have another beer," Tommy suggested suddenly, pushing one towards him. "It'll loosen you up for it."

Paul was going to say that he didn't need any "loosening up," but settled with, "'Kay." He had never turned alcohol down in the past, and he wasn't going to start now. If you asked him later on why he had taken it, he wouldn't have an answer – he would only know that he hadn't been thinking at all.

It would turn out to be the first dumb decision he would ever make in Mayhill.

* * *

The air was hot and dry outside already, despite the time – quarter after seven, now. He was walking down his street, towards where his car was (hopefully) still parked. All he carried was a pair of keys on a chain, which he dangled and spun around his fingers. No notebooks, no pencils – he didn't need any of it. He could always mooch supplies out of somebody when he got to school. It worked all the time.

The street was quiet, except for a loud ruckus coming out of a building that he was near. He couldn't make out what was being said until two people came bursting out of the front door and down some steps – including a rather pissed off woman and a pale blond guy being pushed out onto the sidewalk. She spat out a jumbled mess of what Paul could assume to be Spanish, judging by her general appearance.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" he yelled back, taking a stance at the bottom of the steps.

"Get out of my_ face_!"

"_Bitch, _I did _not _cheat on you—"

"Go fuck yourself, asshole!"

"Fine!" he fumed as he marched around the car that was parked on the side of the street, frantically shoving his hand in his pocket to fish out his keys. "Maybe I will! I don't need you anyways. I'm out of here."

Paul maneuvered around them and their little scene, glancing behind his shoulder a couple times to make sure he hadn't gotten sucked into it just by being near them. But they were preoccupied with cussing each other out; they didn't even notice he had passed them.

"Good!"

"Don't you mean 'bueno'?"

She cried out in frustration and he got into his car. She flipped him off as he drove away; he made sure he screeched the tires as he rounded the block.

Paul kept his focus forwards after that, eyebrows raised. He mouthed one word: _Wow. _

That was a great relationship, right there.

The vague directions to the school Tommy had given were horrible, to say the least. God bless the very obvious signs that pointed out where exactly Kimberly High was; he would have been driving around Texas for hours trying to find it, otherwise.

Kimberly High was probably just one of many high schools in the city, but its student-body was still rather large, if the sheer size of the building was any indication. The halls were bustling with loud chatter and shoving, too narrow for the amount of traffic coming through the commons area.

He leisurely made his way to the office to pick up his schedule and locker assignment. Mary had called the school several weeks ago to have his things set up, so he was pushed through the long line at the secretary's desk quickly. Thank God. There were a couple black girls giving him death glares while he had been in line, for some reason. It was…awkward.

The lockers were green and there were cute little stuffed bulls that had been lined up along the secretary's desk. Maybe it was assuming too much (she could just like bulls and the locker color choice could have been random), but he was going to float with the idea that that was the primary school color and mascot.

On his way to the first class on his schedule, he spotted a lone pencil in the middle of the hall; he scooped it up and grinned to himself. What a lucky day it was, that he found one so quickly.

He looked twice at the name of the class on the schedule – History of Contemporary Problems. Oh, fancy. Well, it had history in the title, so that probably meant it was some American government thing. He could do that; he knew the names of the presidents. A teacher at his last school had forced him to memorize them all and recite them to the class. He had forgotten most of them almost immediately afterwards, but he did remember who the first president was, at least.

School had only been in session for a few weeks for everyone else; another lucky thing for him. The bell rang shortly after he took a seat and the teacher started gathering some papers at her desk. A tall man with shaggy, dirty blond hair loomed over where Paul sat and deadpanned, "That's my spot."

A wide smile slowly broke out across Paul's face as he gazed up at the guy who looked like he could be out of college, with his stubbly jaw and hard eyes. "Sorry, man," he apologized. Using his legs, he pushed the desk to the side, out of the row. "There ya go." Now the man had his spot back.

It took a very long moment for the man to respond at all. At first he just stared unblinkingly at Paul, and then very slowly, his mouth quirked and he snorted. He sat down at the empty desk in front of Paul without another word. Paul inched the desk back to its normal place while the teacher stood at the front of the room and started passing out small blank sheets of paper. She instructed them to write their opinion on women suddenly being allowed to join the Order of the Garter. Paul gaped. The _what_?

"Fuck this class, man," the blond sitting in front of him mumbled, leaning back in his chair. He was obviously speaking to Paul, though he didn't face him directly. "If she wasn't so hot I'd bail all the time."

Paul tried, but he couldn't suppress his snicker. Silly Texans, sounding so silly. Everyone talked in that thick drawl here. It was very amusing to him, and would probably take a while to get used to – if he ever did. Geez, he shouldn't have laughed; the teacher stopped talking and turned her full attention to him.

"Is something funny?" she snipped.

"No, ma'am." He couldn't wipe the smile off his face, which seemed to annoy her greatly.

"Just answer the prompt."

He looked down at his sheet of paper and wrote, _"Women can wear garters whenever they want. I don't discriminate." _He paused and added, "_P.S. Wear heels that are a little shorter. You look like you're in pain. Keep it real, babe." _He finished by (fearlessly) putting his full name on it and passed it forward.

The blond guy who had sat in front of Paul stopped him when class was over, inviting himself to walk besides Paul down the hall. "So you new?" he asked casually. "I know faces around here, but I don't know yours."

"That's cool. I don't know yours either."

"You got a name, blondie?"

"It's Paul," he replied. They were walking aimlessly down the hall with no established place to go, but he didn't mind. Neither did the strange blond guy.

"My folks call me Jeremy. Everyone else calls me Shane. Shane Powers. You can call me whatever you want, but if it's anything other than Shane, I might just have to kill you."

Paul laughed, taking it as a strange joke. "Okay, man."

"This is where I leave," Shane said distantly, stopping in front of a classroom. "I'll see you around, blondie."

Strange. Strange, but in a way, Paul liked it. Different was good. He'd definitely have to talk to Shane some more.

And – of course – his next class was on the complete opposite side of the school from where Shane had departed. English. Paul was late for it. Very late. The halls had gone dead silent by the time he found the room, and when he entered, the teacher had already started class. Other students stared at him when he walked in and the teacher eyed him curiously.

"You're my new student." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah, I guess I am." He waved a little at all the kids who had zoned in on him, most of them unblinking and expressionless. These poor souls – they must be dying in this class.

The teacher glanced at something on their podium. "Paul…Gle…Gel…" He attempted to say Paul's last name, but gave up after a couple tries.

Was it really that complicated to say? "Yup." They could work on it some other time.

"All right, Paul, have a seat, please."

He waltzed to the first empty seat he saw, which was centered in the middle of the room. He hadn't even really looked at the people around him—not until he was fully seated. And even then, he only noticed one: the person sitting in front of him. All he saw was the back of them; tight curly hair that was bunched up in a bun, loose curls falling out left and right; simplistic clothing that clung to their narrow shoulders. Paul couldn't see anything else from this angle. He didn't know what it was that was so eye-catching about this person to him, really. He wondered if it was their posture; everything about the way they sat spoke _just look right over me. _Polite (they weren't slouching or hiding), but internalized. Like they were trying their best to look small and blend in.

Paul wasn't sure how he was able to gather that much just by the back view of somebody and the way they were sitting; normally he wasn't so good at reading people. But there was something. Something drew his attention in.

_I wanna know your name, _he thought, unaware that he was staring. He was crossing his fingers that the person would turn around for whatever reason and he'd be able to look at their face. And if they didn't do that, he'd have to get up for an unneeded tissue or something to get a look. Why hadn't he looked before, when he walked right past them?

And for the first time ever, Paul was focusing intensely someone he hadn't even fully seen yet. He didn't know their name, didn't know their face, their voice—nothing. Yet he was smitten from the start, smitten because of some strange obsession that had clicked instantly for him, like a flame igniting in his mind. This was completely new to him; he normally didn't care about people he didn't know.

He didn't notice the bell had rung until everyone collected their books and filed out of the classroom. Paul sprung up, walking right on his infatuation's heels to try and get a glimpse or maybe even a word. But he never did; the mass crowd of people in the hall pushed him out of the way, and within a few seconds, the curly-haired student was long out of sight.


	2. Chapter Two

The cafeteria was huge. Not that he was surprised. There was no way he would be finding his English neighbor in here; it was filled to the brim with unknown faces already, and lunch had just started.

"Hey, Paul!"

But others had no trouble finding _Paul, _it would seem.

He was a little bummed that the place was too busy to stalk someone (someone he had never gotten a good look of anyways), but he sent a smile their way and approached the circular table where Shane and several other people sat. "What's up?" he asked, taking a seat.

"Hey man, check it out." Shane turned in his chair to look at all the others sitting at the round table. "This here's Kyle—" a burly man with messy but short blond hair nodded "—Eric—" the bald dark-skinned one gave a (gapped) toothy grin "—and Charlie and Tatum." Paul wasn't sure who was who, because Shane stopped pointing directly to the people. One had very (dyed) black hair and the kind of makeup that would scare a priest, and the other sported wild, sandy brown hair, gaudy blue eye shadow and clothes his mom would envy. Neither looked like good company, to be honest, but they fit in with these boys so they had to be all right. That was _Paul's_ logic behind relaxing around them, anyways.

"Fresh meat," Eric said slowly, still grinning. "What class you in?"

"I'm a senior," Paul replied. The wild-haired brunette broke out into a wide, sexy smile.

"Are you eighteen?" she asked. The way she asked, he knew she was really hoping he _was_.

Paul found himself returning her smile, for a reason unknown to him. "Yeah. Just turned it a couple weeks ago." A blatant lie. His mind reeled, wondering where that had come from; he wasn't due to turn eighteen until December—several whole months away.

Her smile widened even further, exposing her white teeth. "Paul, right?"

"Tatum," Shane chastised. She turned her head to look at him, causing her hair to bounce. "We're not usin' him." She pouted her plump bottom lip. "Besides," he added, "you know Kyle's legal."

"_Very_," Eric laughed. Kyle just absent-mindedly picked at his lunch, oblivious that he was being mentioned.

While the others started chatting away with each other about various babes in the school, Paul leaned in towards the brunette next to him. "So," he began. "Tatum? Is that like…Tatum O'Neal?"

She curled her nose up at him. "_What_?"

"You know…that little girl from Paper Moon?" She still gave him a strange look. "Never mind…"

* * *

Paul looked at his schedule about five times to make sure he wasn't seeing things. But the name of the class never changed, no matter how much he wished it would.

_Chemistry. _

_Who the fuck signed me up for _this?

Fuck. Fuck. Fucking hell. He continued to curse under his breath as he entered the classroom and sat down at one of the back lab tables; this was a class that required a bit of hiding. This was the only subject that he would chicken out on, since the material scared the shit out of him, honestly.

As the lab tables began to fill up, there were two people in particular who walked straight to the back of the class, side-by-side. They looked at the table Paul sat at, and the one next to him. He looked as well and saw that there were only two seats left open in this corner; the one right next to him, and another beside the big scary dude in the adjacent table. These two lovebirds were going to have to split up. Something they were obviously not keen on doing.

Paul smiled widely at the girl when she seemed to scan him up and down. The boy next to her must have decided to take the backbone and took the spot next to the future-but-possibly-current-wrestler-slash-coke-ad dict. She grimaced but ultimately had to sit right next to Paul.

"Hey," he greeted, immediately checking her out on a scale of one to his-new-friends-would-approve. It didn't take long to decide that she would probably meet their babe expectations, if he was going by their little conversation at lunch. At first glance, she wasn't a to-die-for kind of girl; she had blonde hair that was almost white, so short that her ears and the back of her neck were completely revealed, and the little bit of hair that she did have was pulled back with a diamond band.

She had small features all around, and very thin, but that made her legs look all the longer. She was a simple girl, dressed elegantly and not at all like Tatum or Charlie. That was enough to probably make her invisible to many men, but when Paul thought about her hesitance to sit by him, that was probably her goal.

The girl hardly looked at him. "I'm Paul," he went on. "I'm, uh…kinda new here. If you couldn't tell." He rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. "I'm trying to remember as many faces as I can on the first day and all, so…what's your name?"

"Bernadette," she replied singularly. Paul couldn't tell if she was being curt or hostile, but he went on anyways.

"That's a fancy name," he said thoughtfully. "Do people always call you that?"

It took her a moment, but again her answer was one word: "Yes."

"Cool."

The teacher took his place at the front of the room and a (relative) hush fell over the class. "Greenburg," he snapped to one of the boys who hadn't shut up. "Are you going to watch your tongue today or will you continue to make this class a living hell for me? I have no problem assigning you another dictionary entry."

Greenburg had to bite his lip to stifle his laugh, but he did hush up for the moment.

The rest of the class was silent as well, obviously out of fear of having to copy thousands of words out of a dictionary every time they spoke out of turn. But Paul… Paul was trying to figure out how he was going to mess with this teacher as much as possible.

Chemistry wouldn't be so bad after all if he sat next to a beautiful girl and his teacher was a cranky dinosaur. It could be fun, even.

Too bad the boy in the sweater-vest who had to sit next to the huge guy on steroids didn't agree.

* * *

Paul had caught his mom leaving late at night before, and he had seen her leave in sinful outfits on even more occasions, but she had never tried to hide it from him. Not until that night.

Tommy was still out working his mechanic stuff (Paul really had no idea what any of that entitled; he wasn't a car whiz) and Paul was watching Paper Moon from the couch. He heard heels coming from him and Mary's shared room and he called out, "Tatum O'Neal plays that little girl in this movie, right?" Tatum had given him such a strange look he wondered if he had gotten the actress wrong.

"No clue," she replied, and Paul heard the front door unlocking. He peered around the corner in time to catch his mother fiddling with the keys while dressed in the most revealing outfit he had seen her wear yet.

"Where are _you _going?"

She glanced over her shoulder at him and quickly turned back around. "I'm just going out," she said vaguely. "Don't even worry about it. I'll be back before you wake up; you can still drive to school tomorrow."

Mary got all of the locks to open and looked back at her son once more. "Okay," he said slowly. "See you tomorrow."

"Lock the door behind you." She smiled at him and quickly left. Paul sighed and got up to do just that. He didn't know who she could be meeting, or where she would be going—and honestly, he didn't really want to think about it too much. He stood in front of the door for a while, resting his head against the wood. He jumped when someone knocked and quickly checked the peephole, expecting it to be Tommy coming back from work. But it wasn't anybody he recognized. He couldn't place them at all.

_To open or to not open, _he pondered.

Well, he shouldn't be rude. This person was standing there waiting casually, and not staring back into the peephole lens like a creep. So Paul unlocked the door again (_so many locks_) and pulled the handle back, revealing a tall, darker-skinned man at the threshold. He lifted his arm and Paul looked down at what was in his hand.

Envelopes.

"I think this is your mail," he said. Paul grabbed the envelopes, checked the name and address, and nodded.

"Yeah, it is. Thanks, man." It was nice of him to bring it directly to them, instead of setting it outside their door. You never knew who would sift through your mail in a neighborhood like this.

The man simply nodded and retreated to the other door on that floor. So _that _was their neighbor, Paul thought while waltzing back into his own apartment. He was so busy looking at the mail as he carried it to the kitchen that he forgot to lock the door again—something he realized when he woke up in the middle of the night to Tommy yelling at him about being careless and putting their home at risk of being robbed or whatever he was going on about.

It was an honest mistake, Paul thought. What was the big deal? It wasn't the greatest place to live but were there seriously people who went around to every apartment and checked which doors were locked and which weren't?

Tommy was still huffing and puffing about that when Mary got home at six. Paul ignored him until he left for school, telling himself that his uncle would forget all out it soon enough. In a few days. Or weeks. Or maybe he would hold that against his nephew for the rest of eternity, the more Paul thought about it.

Oh, who fucking cared. He had other things to worry about. Like seeing his mystery English buddy.

Shit, he had almost forgotten about that. He was sitting casually in his chair and carving words into his desk when he remembered; he instantly focused on the door and who was coming in and out of it. He saw one girl with curly blonde hair walk in and his heart skipped a beat, but he quickly realized that it wasn't who he was looking for.

Good things come to those who wait. Because lo and behold, there he was. _He, _Paul saw with some surprise. It had been a little hard to tell from behind, but from the front, he could definitely tell. He still had narrow shoulders and a waistline thinner than his hips, giving him a feminine shape, and his hair was light and curly and pinned out of the way again. The boy had fair skin, outstanding cheekbones and a strong nose that Paul found he really liked. He wore multiple layers of shirts and nice pants that had no holes or rips, unlike the ratty pairs Paul owned. And to end his appearance, he had very small shoes that peeked out only a few inches from the cuff of his jeans. And yes, Paul really did look him up and down, head to toe.

It felt like there was just too much to take in during the boy's short walk from the door to his desk. Paul tried to soak up as much as he could, even though he'd be seeing him again; it was still disappointing when the boy sat with his back to him, hiding his face again and trying to become small in his seat.

_What the hell do I do now? _He couldn't sit there for the rest of the class, now that he had seen the boy he knew he'd be stalking for a while yet. He had to do something. Speak to him. Poke him. Kick his desk. Touch his hair. _Something. _

So he poked him in the shoulder with the eraser end of a pencil. "Hey," he said, and his heart skipped more than a couple beats when the boy actually turned around in his seat enough to see Paul. He panicked, having not come up with anything to say, so he sputtered, "Do you remember the homework that was due today?"

"There was none." Paul had almost been expecting him to snap his answer, so he was pleased when the response was neutral, curt. He turned back around in his seat to face the front board and Paul was caught between dying and rejoicing.

* * *

"Oh, _hell no_."

"You've gotta be kidding me."

"No fucking way."

Paul blinked. "What?" He looked back at the table he had pointed out to his new "group," you could call them. It had stuck out like a sore thumb to him when he entered lunch that day and had to say something about it to Shane and his friends—about Bernadette, the blonde boy he had kinda-sorta-but-not-really met, and the sweater-vest guy who had wanted to sit next to Bernadette in Chemistry. They all sat at a table together, and Paul was inclined to ask why. Funny that he had met all three of them yesterday and they had all caught his eye, some more than the others. He wondered how they were connected. Tatum, Eric and Shane didn't react so well. Kyle ate his chips in peace and Charlie examined her black fingernails.

Shane leaned forward on his chair, getting closer to Paul as if what he was about to explain was very important. "Listen close, man. I want you to get along here real well, all right? There's some people you don't wanna talk to."

"Like the cheerleaders," Tatum supplied.

"And the nerds," added Eric.

"The rich bitches."

"The pink bitches."

"The sweater-vest douches."

"You don't wanna relate with them," Shane explained. "They're not good company. And if you get in with them, you belong with them; you can say goodbye to the decent people in this school."

"So…what group do they fall into, exactly?" Paul was confused on that.

Shane got even closer, until his heavy breath brushed against Paul's face. "One word for you, man: _loaded_."

"With what?" Drugs? He was pretty sure these guys were all on some heavy stuff themselves…

"No, man! _Money._"

Paul blinked. "And? Do they live in a big mansion together or somethin'?"

"Nobody knows, bro," Eric said mysteriously. "Nobody ever seen their house. But we seen the family car. A gorgeous black muscle car. So beautiful I could cry. You gotta have plenty cash shoved up your ass to have that."

"That one in the vest," Tatum began, chewing on her fries and gesturing to the dark-haired teenager with another fry behind held between her index finger and thumb. "Chris. He's not related to them. Their families are friends or something. The blondes are siblings. They have a bunch more in their family still in grade school."

"_We're_ in grade school," Charlie inserted.

"Whatever," Tatum hissed. "Anyways, Benny is a total bitch. I hate her so much. Chris' dad is a doctor or something, so I'd be down with him, but he's a total pansy and his fashion sense is god awful, so ew."

"What's his name?" Paul asked, admittedly ignoring ninety percent of what Tatum was saying.

"Who?"

"Bernadette's brother," he clarified.

"Oh." She ate a couple more fries. "Marko, I think. I've never heard him say anything, but people talk about him a lot. Rumors, you know."

"Huh," he said distantly while watching the trio eat at their table. They were oblivious to the hateful talk about them several tables away, and for that Paul felt guilty. But at least he wasn't feeding into the judgment. Although, if he was being honest, he was slightly more interested in all three of them. Of course he already had an infatuation with Marko, but the other two intrigued him now. Rich, they said?

Fascinating.


	3. Chapter Three

It only took Paul one week to fall behind in his classes. He hadn't noticed how far behind he had gotten until his English got up in the front of the room and told them to get out their completed projects. A project he had no idea they'd ever been assigned.

Yikes.

A voice in the back of his mind whispered, _Maybe if you'd stop staring at the back of Marko's head the whole class period…_

Another told it to shut its trap and enjoy the view, no matter how limited it was from this angle.

"Paul," the teacher said, having become very familiar with Paul's name the last week—even though he still couldn't pronounce his last name. Not that he had really tried to learn it.

_Jesus Christ, it's not that hard to say…_

"Yeah," was his response as he sat up straight in his chair. The girl behind him sighed in protest; she had made it clear already that she hated his height. It was hard to see the board around him.

"Would you like to share first?"

_What do you think? _"Don't have it," he said simply. The teacher narrowed his eyes at him.

"The term is ending soon. You might want to pass this class."

_It's the fucking end of the term. What's the big deal? _He said nothing, though, and the teacher moved on to the next person. It wasn't that Paul didn't care about school… The thing was, he wondered if that project had been assigned before he'd even come to this school and the teacher just didn't realize that. Maybe. Hopefully. Chemistry and History of Contemporary Problems were already kicking his ass, because he wasn't good with science and, apparently, debates weren't his forte either. He didn't stress too much over it, though. There was still time before panic would set in and he'd spend all night in the library studying.

After an excruciating class period, in which a dozen students shared their incredibly boring and never-ending projects, the bell rang. Everyone shot out of their seats and raced each other to the door. Paul was half-asleep by the time the bell had sounded, so he was a little slow getting out before everyone else. He nearly swore when the teacher called out to him, "Paul! Don't leave just yet."

He slowly turned around and saw that the teacher was talking to _him_—Marko. They were standing at the podium and the teacher (sadly, Paul had no clue what his name was) was speaking with him while the short blonde just nodded and listened intently. Paul took two steps towards them and stopped, suddenly self-conscious of how much space he should give the guy.

He saw Paul out of the corner of his eye, and Paul wondered if the man had forgotten about his presence for a few seconds. "You," he said. "Young man. Come here." Paul took several more steps towards them, until he was close enough to touch the podium. The teacher lowered his voice for some reason as he went on, "You've been slacking all term."

"I got here a week ago."

The teacher paused. "All the more reason for you to pick up the pace! That project is worth most of your term grade. If you don't at least attempt to do it, then I'm inclined to be extra tough on your upcoming test. Do you understand?"

"Yeah."

"_Yes_," the older gentleman corrected. "I don't have time to work with you myself, so Marko will be." Paul's heart nearly stopped. He looked over at Marko, who stole a glance as well. "He's my best student. If you give him a hard time, consider this the last time I try to help you. _Do you understand_?"

"Yes," he ground out. _Thanks for lecturing me in front of _him.

"Good." The teacher looked satisfied with himself, so Paul and Marko both left the classroom.

The hall had a decent number of people standing around still, but for the most part, the rush that occurred right after a class ended was over. Since lunch had begun, many people had flounced into the cafeteria. That was good, because Paul didn't want to have to raise his voice in order to talk to Marko—and this was a perfect opportunity to say something other than "What was due today?" Ugh. So stupid.

"What a dick."

Marko looked surprised Paul had said anything; they were walking side-by-side, with a good two feet between each other, and the curly-haired boy looked to his left and up. The look was fleeting and reticent, though, because he glanced away. "Yeah, he's…strict."

_Holy mother of god he responded._

"So you have an A in that class? Since he said you're the best and all." Another stupid fucking question. _My god._

"No…I have a B." As an afterthought, he added, "I think."

Paul could have been hearing things, but it sounded like Marko wasn't impressed with that B, so he quickly said, "Well, I've never gotten a B in my life. It's a miracle every time I manage a C."

"You probably could. Get a B in something, I mean. It's not that hard."

Maybe to him. For some people, good grades just seemed to come naturally. And if he really was rich, well…people from money had an aptitude for being perfect in everything they did. "Where's your locker?" Paul asked, since Marko was still carrying his things and they were headed towards the cafeteria.

"It's out of the way. I just bring my stuff to lunch every day."

And there is was. Paul could have sworn before he heard _something _peaking through his voice, but it only happened once before. He had just heard it again. It was an accent—one that wasn't Texan. And correct him if he was wrong, but it sounded like there was an effort on Marko's part to conceal it. He could definitely tell.

Marko glanced over at Paul again. "What?" The tall blonde was staring.

"Are you from here?" He'd never seen someone look away and avert their eyes so quickly. He knew that if he could see Marko's face, he'd see two lobster red cheeks. _Why so embarrassed? _"Sorry," he apologized instantly.

"No, I'm not," Marko responded. "Is it that obvious?"

"Nah, it's really not," Paul said dismissively, trying to sound truthful. It really _wasn't _obvious, but Paul was worried he was going to sound insincere. "I just…suspected. You don't sound like the southern hillbillies around here." He chuckled. "You know… 'Joe, get the tractor, we gotta take lil' Bobby to school!'"

When he saw the hint of a smile on Marko's face, he had an elated feeling in his chest that he hadn't felt in a long time. "I'm from Louisiana. And people are more 'hillbilly' there than they are here, just so you know."

"Louisiana?" It was one of those states you rarely ever heard about—the kind most people forgot existed until someone brought it up once in a blue moon. That was Paul's perspective of the state, anyway. "Shit, isn't that like…" He paused, his mind running blank when he tried to conjure a mental map. "Where _is _that?"

"It's two hours away," Marko answered, and Paul gave a cheeky smile. Oops. Should've paid more attention in social studies. Thankfully Marko didn't look offended or baffled. If anything, he was slightly amused by this conversation.

"Wait, so you have a different accent and you're from somewhere that's two hours away?" How did that even work?

"It's a cultured area."

Paul had no idea what that meant exactly, but he rolled with it. "So when did you move here?"

"A few years ago."

Paul found himself slowing his walking pace, trying to prolong their conversation as much as he could. "I got here a week ago."

"I know." Paul shot him a questioning look and he explained, "You told the teacher."

"Oh yeah." He was really pushing it; he was waiting for Marko to get impatient with him, but the curly-haired blonde just smiled and watched his feet, books clutched to his chest.

"Where are you from?"

"L.A."

"Really? I thought you seemed more like a San Fran kind of guy."

Paul grinned at the teasing. "You just figured I was from the west coast?"

"I suspected." Ah—the same thing Paul had said about Marko's accent, something that had started this whole chit-chat. How sly of him. For a moment Paul wondered if Marko had been placing bets with someone on where he was from, but that was unlikely. Still, to think that Marko may have actually noticed him before today…it lifted his spirit. And his confidence. But honestly, it wasn't hard to boost Paul's self-assurance.

They had reached the cafeteria, alas, and Paul waited to see if Marko would (fingers crossed) sit with him. Whether it was with Paul's friends or Marko's, he didn't care. But, much to his dismay, Marko stopped just inside the two doors and faced Paul. The much taller of the two had to hold in a laugh at how _small _he really was. "We can work on the project whenever," he said. "Do you work at all after school?"

"No," Paul answered. _I don't do much of anything after school. _

"Want to work on it later, then?"

"Sure." He smiled at Marko—probably a really goofy grin. But he didn't care. He was hanging out after school with probably the most enticing person he had ever laid eyes on. Not to get sexual or anything.

"Okay." Marko smiled too, took two steps in the opposite direction, and then spun around again. "Oh, and I can't stay later than four today. Sorry."

Paul laughed light-heartedly. The guy didn't have to apologize for having things to do later. "That's okay, man. An hour is enough."

"Okay," Marko said again, and smiled. Again. And then he turned on his heels and continued toward his table, where the two people he sat with every day were waiting for him. The sweater-vest guy—Chris, his name was—was giving Paul a strange look. It was obviously meant to send off warning bells in the blonde's head, but all Paul did was wave at the guy and sit down at his own table.

"Hey, man!" Eric greeted. "Good thing you showed up."

"What's better—big tits, or little ones?"

"What's wrong with something in-between?" Charlie drawled with a smirk on her face.

"Big," Kyle said with a lazy grin. "I like 'em huge."

"Nah, man—then they're all saggy!"

Tatum noticed that Paul wasn't participating in their debate; he was looking to his left, at Marko's table. She slipped an arm around his shoulders and breathed huskily in his ear, "There's nothing better than what I got. Don't you agree, baby?"

Paul turned his attention away from Marko and looked directly at Tatum. It was a bit of a shock to his eyes; they were two very different beings, and not just in appearance and mechanics. "I think Shane would know more about that than me."

Tatum's sultry expression suddenly went sour, and she crinkled her nose in Shane's direction. He was high. He's _been _high—all week. And he had that I-don't-give-a-single-fuck look on his face. He didn't even notice that his girlfriend was coming on to someone else.

Shane was Paul's friend, and for that reason, he sidled out from under her arm. Besides…he had better, hotter fish to catch later.


End file.
